


Children of Ilúvatar.

by hennethgalad



Series: Hador Lórindol. [1]
Category: The Silmarillion.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 21:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15398169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Fingolfin meets Hador, and Gildis.





	Children of Ilúvatar.

 

 

Children of Ilúvatar.

 

"Now Hador Lórindol, son of Hathol, son of Magor, son of Malach Aradan, entered the household of Fingolfin in his youth, and was loved by the King. Fingolfin therefore gave to him the lordship of Dor-lómin"

 

 

 

Fingolfin stood before the portrait of Aradan, dead now for seven years. The stern face of the Man gazed unflinchingly at the artist, as though to say 'I have no shame to conceal from you, do as you please with your artistry.'

Fingolfin smiled, it was this expression, more than mere physical resemblance, that truly caught the likeness of Aradan. The forked beard, with beads of amber woven into the plaits, was the colour of ripened wheat, darker than the straw coloured hair, and the eyes were the bright blue of the sunlit sky. Aradan, fair and wise, had been a valued member of his court, and still Fingolfin mourned him, in disbelief that seemed never to pass, that Eru could have made such Children, only for them to be snatched away from Arda, for all time.

To never see Aradan again, neither in life nor in the Halls of Mandos, nor Valinor itself. Where could they be, the lost Mortals ? Did they return to Eru ? Did they cease to be ? Were they cast into the void, as crumbs from a table ? Fingolfin shook his head, there were more theories than there were Elves in Beleriand, but Aradan was gone, never to be seen again.

Fingolfin sighed, then looked again at the letter in his hand. The great grandson of Aradan, named Hador, was coming to Eithel Barad, to serve the King. Fingolfin wondered if the same courage, the same spirit, would be found in his young kinsman, his heart lifted, feeling the eager longing of one awaiting the returning birds of spring. 

 

Írimë had arrived. Fingolfin found her on the High Bridge. He smiled, she was casting small stones into the swift waters far below, laughing as they vanished in the spray and foam. He laughed himself, there was no one like Lalwen for making people laugh, she could comment on the weather and cause the room to laugh, but those closest to her, especially Finarfin, knew the seriousness of her thought, and saw the mind beneath the smile.

She handed a pebble to Fingolfin, he exclaimed delightedly, it was a nugget of gold. But Írimë laughed.

"Dear Fingolfin, it is Orc Gold, not the true gold. Unless you have need of it to light your fire ?"

Fingolfin laughed and tossed the pebble over the railing. "When things are quieter, I must let you take me on one of your expeditions, and you shall teach me the lore of rock and stone. I have barely served my time in the smithy, and my ignorance is great."

Írimë laughed "Quieter ? We have had peace for three hundred years ! Quieter ! Why, there was more for the hunters to do in Valinor than there is here. When didyou last see an Orc ? You know that even Angrod and Aegnor have so little to do that they ride out seeking trouble on Ard Galen ? Quieter... Admit the truth, Fingolfin, you do not care for rocks and stones, nor the dirt and heat of the smithy, and will never study them. Quieter !"

Fingolfin turned and gazed out at the great plain of Ard Galen, stretching uninterrupted for a hundred leagues, to the March of Maedhros and the remote Ered Luin far to the East. Nothing moved but the birds, the grass was tall and green, a faint mist rose above the meads, and in the distance, at the edge of vision, the brown specks of deer, resting among the flowers, drifting idly through riches beyond imagining. He wondered what it must be like, to be surrounded by food, for as far as the eye could see, knee deep in food, needing to do nothing but stoop, to eat at will. The wolves lurked, of course, but the deer flourished, scarcely leaving mark of their passing on the swift-growing grasses.

 

"The great grandson of Aradan comes to Barad Eithel." he said finally.

Írimë snorted "I know, it was I who suggested it to him. They grow apart from us, forgetting our songs, returning to their old ways." she paused "Primitive ways. I fear the shadow creeps down from the North...You have spent too long in Barad Eithel, in the sunshine of the plains. Not for nothing is Hithlum called the land of mist. The clouds gather, West of the Ered Wethrin, and in the dimness doubt spreads.

But Hador is a fine boy, eager, swift-witted and strong. He will flourish in the light of the sun, and the light of your wisdom." She laughed at Fingolfin. "But I am serious, brother, though you take me for a jester, which I am..." she stopped, and looked out at the plain, while Fingolfin thought of Hithlum, where the winds from the sea dropped the last of the rain carried over the Ered Lómin. It was a richer land, greener even than the plain, filled with ancient trees, countless streams and brooks, springs and freshets, scattered with pools, every stone and rock thickly garnished with moss. And all flowed, slow or swift, down to the lake where the greater part of his people dwelt, basking on the sheltered shores. It had been years, he must return to Mithrim, he must speak to the kin of Aradan, he must see his own people, he must spend time in the smithy... The many calls on his time fretted him, he had never imagined being put in this position, his grandfather was king, and immortal. He hadnot even been the eldest son, until...

It was impossible, to do everything asked of him was impossible. He must turn to those who offered service to him, and let them help.

 

The boy was led into the hall, Fingolfin looked at the bony child, with great flapping feet, and huge hands hanging by the thin body. The face too was disappointing, the chin was small, the skin blemished, the cheeks sunken, and grey shadows darkened the blue eyes. Fingolfin turned to Írimë.

"This... this is the kin of Aradan ?"

"You do not know them as I do, brother, they change with the swiftness of the sunrise, soon you will not know him. Think of Celegorm and his hounds, how he told us that the paws showed the true size the pups would attain. Look at those hands, this child will be mighty indeed, as tall, it may be, as Elwë himself."

"Yes, of course. But I recall Aradan; it seems as though I could stroll to his rooms and find him there, sharpening his sword until he wore the blade thin... But he has passed, and now there is... this."

The boy looked boldly at the king, then bowed, and presented him with a casket of inlaid wood. The skills of the Edain had flourished under the protection and guidance of the Eldar, and the delicacy of the crafting delighted him. But the casket was weighty, he opened the lid, lined with soft cloth, and nestled within, coddled in more cloth, like an egg in a nest, was a piece of amber, as large as his fist, within which a small lizard was preserved, as perfect as the day it perished. The boy spoke then, his voice startlingly deep and pleasing.

"Stars shine upon you, my King, I am Hador, son of Hathol, son of Magor, son of Malach, whom you named Aradan. This trifle is a stone my people call the Egg of the Dragon; you can see how it came by the name.

I offer you my service, in gratitude for your protection, in honour of your wisdom, and in the hope of renewing the ties between our kindreds."

"May you walk in the Light, child of Aradan. My dear sister speaks of you with praise, I am certain that you will honour the memory of your own noble kinsman and fulfil your promise and flourish into a mighty warrior and a wise ruler of your people.

Dine with us now, that we may learn your mood."

 

 

 

 

Five years passed. The North was quiet but the Fëanorians were restive, Finrod seemed unconcerned, but still there was no trace of Turgon, though many sought his realm in vain. Fingon, and many of his people, could not settle to the life of the farmer, and roamed freely over Hithlum, lingering for a time, drifting like the deer, blithe with song. Fingolfin joined them, feeling his spirit refreshed by the rains of the West, at times he could almost catch the salt scent in the air, that whispered of the distant sea.

 

 

 

    Gildis was in love with Finrod. Everyone was in love with Finrod, but the Music School held a special place in the heart of the Lord of Nargothrond, and he spent long days, and nights, singing with the students, or playing his harp to the enthralled listeners. Those who sought to play along were encouraged, but each would fall silent, fascinated by his great beauty, the charm of his smile, and the voice that held the limbs in a calm, still embrace. The wise perceived the power, the Light within him, that he poured into his work, into every song, from the least crude ditty at a drunken party, to the solemnity of a dirge for those lost. They said that he would fade, drift away from them, thinning like smoke, spending himself in art. But secretly, all who heard him dreamed of such a skill, and many would willingly have perished after a single performance, to hold an audience as Finrod held them, to sing as he sang.

 

But Gildis was returning home, she had learned all that they could teach her, the rest was in her hands, in her voice, and in her heart. She had spoken to her tutor of giving lessons, but he had laughed.

"My dear, merely to hear you sing is lesson enough. Let them but see you play and they will practice as hard as you have. No, do you but study your own feelings, for all the skill you need is in your hands and voice. You must seek the true note, let every note be true, and they will listen to you as to him."

"Is that his secret ? The true note ?"

The tutor had laughed "It is hardly a secret ! No. It is something you know, as you know that the Great Sea is vast. But you do not know the vastness of the sea if you have never seen it ! We know the truth of the voice of Finrod, and indeed, I have heard Maglor himself, though his music is rather darker, like his heart, but there, we have spoken many times of this... Only Eru sings the True Note, we are but fragmentsof the sound, that, only by all singing together, in harmony, will be realised at last. So we Elves believe." He had frowned then "But you are Edain, young Gildis, as I keep forgetting. You have become so like one of our own, in face, in voice, in song and in spirit...

I shall miss you, when you go, I shall miss your wit and your mischief ! Do you remember the time when you... Well, but this is not the time for such... Farewell, my dear. Walk in the Light, and seek the true note, and all will be well."

 

 

The singing had stopped. The road from Nargothrond to Barad Eithel passed close by the Fen of Serech, clinging to the skirts of the mountains, under constant repair as rocks and stones slid down in ones and twos, or in great slides of land, as though spilled by a weary bearer, careless of the load. The rain had been falling for days, and the road, driven out onto the marshland by a cliff face, turned from path to wooden bridge, held above the treacherous shifting reeds on great posts, hewn from the trunks of mighty trees. So deep were the Fens that scarcely a fathom of these giants of the Forest showed above the murky water.

Gildis reached anxiously down to where her harp, carefully wrapped in many layers, hung from the saddle. She checked the straps and buckles for the hundredth time, the thought of getting the least scratch on the precious harp was intolerable, for the king himself, Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond and West Beleriand, had given it to her with his own hands, for her song at the Feast of Varda the Kindler.

She was still glowing from his smile, and she knew that all her life she would treasure the memory of his one word. For he had looked into her eyes, amid the cheering, and she had felt a joy that seemed larger than her, too large to understand or even to experience. It was a moment she could never forget, she felt greater, after, larger, taller, more powerful, as one under a spell, or intoxicated. But Finrod had smiled, holding both her hands, his pale blue eyes shining into hers, like the light of stars, and had merely said "Yes."

He had instantly been swept away, the harp, even the harp had been handed to her by old Gildor, Finrod's shadow, as they all called him. And though Finrod had overseen the making of the harp, and marked it with his own name, and the name of Varda, Gildis had never been near enough to speak to him again. But the one word had been enough, she knew then that her tutor was right, she had learned all that the Elves could teach her. It was up to her to find the true note for the Edain, and not merely a smaller, less significant version of the music of the Eldar.

 

The insects, the flies that haunted Serech rose in smoky clouds to greet them, like the ghosts of Dagor nuin Giliach. Every bite a rebuke from a dead orc, or so the song said. But in Nargothrond they spoke of the birds, whose chief food was the insects, and whose song, and strange cries, made the Fens a place of great music, where Ulmo and Yavanna sang in closest harmony. The air was heavy with moisture even when the rain had ended, the sky hazed on the clearest days. The swamp seemed to float into the air at times, as though Manwë himself bore witness to, and sang harmony with, his mighty kin. Trees clung to the patches of land, but offered no aid to the traveller, for the waters rose and fell with the distant rain, and many had found that the tree they had fought towards was itself rising from the unknowable depths. The very ground shifted underfoot, thick clay, or soft sand, or clinging waterweeds, and few were the tales of those who had crossed the Fen in safety. None knew the passages, for they could not be known, wandering with the waters, sandcastles in the rising tide.

 

A cry of alarm came from the front of the column, which halted. Gildis looked up from her harp, and saw a sight of wonder and terror. The watchtower, guarding the turn of the road, was tilting, the whole tall structure leaned towards the water, jerking slowly like a sleeping hound. Shouts of fear came from within, and Elves could be seen, even by her Mortal eyes, scrambling down the sides, and leaping away. After a few moments ropes slithered out, and Elves slid down, so fast that Gildis could almost feel the burn of the rope on her hands. But within minutes, long before the tower fell, the guards were clear, on either side of the tower, watching the disaster.

Timber buckled and strained, then with cracks like thunder, began to burst and snap, and the tower, in an explosion of sound, collapsed like the toy of a child, falling into the solid-seeming surface, where water lilies had floated, throwing up a foul stench and a surging wave of filth and mud and a deluge of water. The startled horses were backing and sidling, sounds of fear filled the air, as the Elves tried to calm them. Gildis, whose own mount was edging her into the Elf beside her, stroked the chestnut neck and whispered the words of Oromë. The eyes of Finrod came before her, and she smiled and whispered "Thankyou, my lord." Then she started to sing.

 

The Song of Oromë was a calming song, the first line "Become the leaf..." meant to bring a hollow, listening peace, to make the hunter one with the forest, one with the prey, one with the tree, one with the leaf. The Hunter himself had given the song to all the Children, and though the words were changed as the languages of the kindreds had shifted (like the marshes ?) the simple tune was known to all.

And Gildis sang, in the driving rain, halted at the ruined edge of the road, a Mortal, young and untested, yet her voice, low and true, carried over the frightened cries of the horses and heads turned towards her. She sang on, and voices, hesitantly, here and there, joined with her, until the whole column, softly and calmly, sang the great chorus of opening, until their minds were free and clear, and their thoughts were at peace. The horses, hearing the familiar melody, were reassured, and were stilled, shaking their manes and grumbling through their lips, but staying their motion until the column was at rest.

 

While the guards set about putting a pontoon across the gap in the road, the commander sought out Gildis.

"You have my gratitude, Gildis the bard. You have shown quicker wits than an entire column of Elves, and for that, I shall present you to the High King, who will thank you himself. But you have my gratitude for the gift of hearing you sing, here, now, like this. It was the loveliest thing... I shall cherish my memory of this moment, and, if I may tell you something without insulting you, you have made me think more highly of... of your kind. For I have had little to do with the Edain, and had considered you irrelevant, a folly of Eru, not worthy of consideration. I can see now that it is I who am unworthy, in my own folly. I thank you then for the lesson you have taught me, as much as for the beauty and power of your song. And I ask your forgiveness."

Gildis, wide eyed with awe and gratitude, had thanked the commander, and offered him full pardon. True to his word, he had brought her straight to Barad Eithel, where Fingolfin, the High King of the Noldor, awaited.

 

 

 

Írimë sent word that the Edain had completed their training, displays of their skills would take place at the Feast of Yavanna, when the leaves began to colour and the fruit hung heavy in the orchard. Fingolfin returned with ease of heart to the airy palace by the lake, where the hardy vines of the North garlanded the pillars and shaded the terrace. Írimë was laughing as Fingolfin arrived, she had been telling a tale of the exploits of a courtier, who was blushing while his friends laughed. But she was never cruel, the embarrassed courtier glowed with pride to be singled out, to be noticed at all in the busy swirl, as the wanderers came and went. Írimë herself had been only a few weeks by the lake, but already she looked as though she had been there always.

 

"My dear Lalwen !" he exclaimed "What joy to see you once more !"

"Fingolfin, you reprehensible truant ! Running wild in the woods with young Fingon, eh ? What would mother say ?"

"Mother would sit forwards eagerly and ask what the ground was like for riding, and wish she had been with us. As do you !"

"Ah, she would, and you are right, but not entirely so. I do wish I had been with you, but I have made a new friend here, whom I am sure you will take to as I have, and I would not have missed the time I have spent here."

Fingolfin glanced at the courtiers around Írimë, and looked enquiringly at her. She shook her head. "No, not yet. Do sit, and have some of this glorious wine, crisp as the first frost."

 

The smooth lawn sloped into a level terrace where festivals and feasts were held.At the far end of the terrace, another, gentler slope led down to the shore of Mithrim, where the boats, small and large, swayed in the water round the long jetty. A few pleasure boats were out, singing could be heard faintly over the water at the start of the first race, when all held their breath, awaiting the steward's call.

 

The Edain were tall and strong, darker of complexion than the Noldor, with blue eyes, blue of every shade, from pale ice to deep cornflower, and hair like straw or corn, fair or rich, bound back for the race with bands across the forehead, and wrought gold clasps at the neck.

But one among them stood forth like a reed in the grasses, winning races, the feats of spear-casting, wrestling, lifting and climbing. Only the archery eluded him, but he took such pleasure in the victor, clearly a friend, that Fingolfin found himself warming to the stranger. But...

"Surely that is an Elf. Does he set the pace for the Edain ? And why does he claim the prizes ? What is this?"

Írimë laughed "Alas, you have left your wits with the Onodrim, that is Hador, the kin of Aradan. He is the friend I spoke of, I told you you would like him."

 

Fingolfin looked again at the tall figure; surely it was one of the Sindar, there were those of the people of Elwë with such hair, and such grace, and such beauty. Despite the considerable exertion, the golden skin of Hador was merely flushed at the cheeks, bringing the peach to mind. Fingolfin glanced around, almost every eye was upon the son of Hathol, save that of Írimë, who smiled warmly at him "Well ? And what do you think, a worthy successor to Aradan, yes ?"

Fingolfin raised his brows "Indeed, perhaps they grow more like us, as they dwell among us ?"

"Perhaps." she frowned briefly, and looked up at the Sun "It may be that the Light, even this pale echo of the Light that was, causes them to flourish, as our forebears flourished in Valinor."

Without thought, save memory, both turned to face the West, and Fingolfin raised his glass. But the Edain had completed their exercise, and Hador son of Hathol, twenty years of the Sun, approached Fingolfin, High King of all the Noldor.

 

Fingolfin, discomfited by his error, rose to greet Hador, looking into the shining eyes, and seeing warmth, and eager pride. Beside him, Írimë greeted Hador with a pleased laugh "Congratulations, my friend, your excellence shone forth like the first star of Varda. It is a pleasure to welcome you."

"Thankyou, Lady Írimë, I am honoured indeed. Though the short race was rather closer than I had hoped, and I feared that I would prove unworthy in the end. But no, all is well." They laughed together, but Fingolfin found himself strangely reluctant to speak.

Some chord had been struck, deeper than his thoughts were used to go. His heart's memory pained him, he felt the sharp stab of loss, fresh as new blood, and the onset of loneliness, and the parting from Anairë was present to his mind. It seemed that he was not meeting this Hador, but bidding him farewell, in rage and despair at a parting beyond the end of the world, as though the void itself lay between them. The horror of Helcaraxë gripped him, the memory blending with the vision, he wanted to cry aloud, to hold up his hands and ward off the darkness, though all around him was light and laughter.

 

But Hador and Írimë had seen the dismay whiten the pale cheeks of Fingolfin, and Írimë touched his arm. "Do sit, my dear, and drink with us, and you Hador, before you bathe, do you share a flagon with your Lord, who has mistaken you for an Elf, and does not know how to explain his error without appearing to insult you."

Hador laughed. "Insult me ? On the contrary, my lady, I am overwhelmed with pride ! But I would very much like a little wine."

Fingolfin drained his own glass, then drew a great breath. The vision had passed, it seemed puzzling, like a fragment of a picture, impossible to understand until...

"I have had a vision" he blurted. Írimë looked at him in concern.

"You ? Truly ? Now ? You have never spoken of such things before."

"I had never felt such a... seen such... What have I seen ? Darkness, darkness and death... Alas for the Children of Ilúvatar who meet and pass and never meet again, through all of time. What cruelty is this ? Why should he bring us together, for such a moment, for such moments as this, only to tear us apart at once, never to meet again, never..."

Hador widened his eyes for a moment, then let them close, and looked at Fingolfin as one who must care for the other, but who lives to do so.

"If I may speak, my Lord, I would ask you not to grieve for us, though it pleases me that you would remember us in song. I am yet young, my life stretches before me like the summer day to one who rises with the birds. For me the years will be long, and rich in life and purpose and music. I regret that your friendship with my great grandfather ended for you so soon, in truth I loved him best of all my family... But I am here now, sire, and I shall try to serve you as he did, in honour of his memory."

His smile was a thing of great beauty, the light in the golden hair, the sunlight in the bright blue eyes, the gleam of his lips, and the soft golden skin.

 

Fingolfin, to his embarrassment, found that his thoughts had taken a more physical turn, and his eyes dropped to the damp white tunic which clung in places to the heated flesh of the athlete sitting beside him. He was aware of Írimë watching him, and knew that she could read his thought, she always had; she had told him in Valinor that the main reason she was coming with them was to guard his back. He had not imagined, nor did he think that she had, how very important her task would become. But Hador watched him closely, and Fingolfin thought of Finwë, majestic in Tirion, smiling gravely at him, with Indis beside him. The calm of his parents strengthened him, he composed his face, but not his thoughts. Wisdom struggled with feeling, but the words of counsel he offered himself were swept away, leaves on the waters of Sirion. The heart of Fingolfin opened like the wings of the butterfly, the beauty and charm of Hador the golden haired could not be gainsaid. He smiled into the bright blue eyes.

"Lórindol." he said finally. Írimë laughed.

"Hador Lórindol, of the House of Aradan. Yes, a fitting name. But Hador is uncomfortable, sitting in his sweat, we must give him leave, he shall return when he has refreshed himself."

"Your pardon, Hador, I am... my vision has disturbed me, it is the first such... Please, do you take your leave, and return swiftly."

 

Hador, called Lórindol, rose and bowed, hand on heart, after the manner of the Elves. "It shall be as you wish, my liege. I shall return as swiftly as I run."

Írimë laughed, and Fingolfin found a smile, but his heart pounded in his chest, his flesh itched with desires that he had almost forgotten, and he knew that Hador, and indeed, his own sister, had seen his mood, and read his thought, the thought which had scarcely made its presence felt in his mind, but filled his heart with longing for another glimpse of those shining eyes, another smile...

With a slow coldness, he became aware that the courtiers, several of the athletes, and a small crowd of spectators, gathered around on the terrace, had also witnessed the meeting. His heart was no longer his own, he was not the second son of Finwë, he was the High King. He was wed, his wife, the Lady Anairë, lived yet, far to the West, there could be no second love for him. And even if he himself were free to wed again, his chosen one was Mortal, and would soon be... be gone.

Fingolfin snorted softly and wondered if he should go back across the Helcaraxë, then remembered the Curse, and took a draught of wine. They were the Children of Eru, the Music was in them, shaping their hearts as it shaped the world, it was not for him to choose the course of love, but to recognise it in his heart, and keep to the path as best he could.

He sighed, and sat up straight in his seat, watching as two boats came swiftly into view, the rowers flashed the oars through the water, the boats shot forwards, close beside each other, followed by several sail boats, filled with cheering spectators. Those on the terrace rushed to the shore, joining in the cheering: the champions of the last years race had challenged the newest victors, and even Fingolfin found his interest raised. But he did not rise from his seat, and Írimë stayed beside him. He smiled at her and she laughed again.

"Poor dear, do not fret, people understand that visions are disturbing, even happy visions. A dark vision, well... These are your friends, we wish you only joy, and none would grudge you a little happiness after... after everything. Come, let me fill your glass, and we shall watch the rowers at their toil."

 

Fingolfin felt the shadow lift, and saw the approving smile in his sister’s eyes as the frown smoothed itself from his brow and the grip of anxiety loosened its hold on his sinews. The setting sun sent long beams across the lake, sparkling on the rippling waves spreading in the wake of the boats. The light danced on the water, and at the jetty the moored craft swayed, rattling, their reflections splintering into wavering flags. The cheering was all around, people were spilling out to watch, and the wine lifted his heart. He smiled with real warmth at his sister, and stood to watch the champions triumph, as their rivals, an arm's length behind them, lowered their oars and sat gasping for breath. The cheering was loud, and Hador, freshly clad in a fine green tunic embroidered with small silver flowers at the hem, slid silently into place beside Fingolfin.

"Lórindol." said Fingolfin quietly, smiling at Hador as if he were the only person in the world.

"My Lord. I am here."

"Thankyou. I... Thankyou."

Hador smiled, with all the ardent intensity of his glowing youth and vigour. Fingolfin felt an echo of the Light, Hador seemed to him as a gate or door, through which the Light shone again upon him, he wanted to grasp him in his arms, to bask in the Light once more. He blinked, and turned away, before the strength of his feelings drove him to an act of public folly. But his thoughts ran swiftly on, and he wondered already what he could do to keep Hador at his side when all the rest were gone, yet thinking nothing of the time to come, when age or misfortune would take Hador from him with the finality from which his whole heart recoiled in horror.

 

    They sang and drank for many hours, the Moon rose, turning the lake to a sheet of black and silver, and the eyes of the Man watched Fingolfin, gleaming like the stars. Fingolfin let the teachings of his father guide him through the formal words of praise as the blushing athletes were brought to him, and he forced himself to smile with real warmth each time, knowing the struggle each had endured to earn that smile. But all the time, at every instant, he was aware of Hador, close by him, jesting with friend and rival alike, saying the words that eased the tension, turned smiles to laughter, and gave the athletes welcome. And the more that Hador charmed them all, the longer they stayed, drinking and singing, singing and drinking, until Fingolfin found his knuckles pained him. He looked down, his fists were clenched with frustration, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. He looked then at Hador, who let the smile fade from his face.

"I shall take a walk along the shore, I should like some fresh air. Will you come ?"

Hador bowed a little "My lord..."

A drunken voice cried with pleasure and suggested that they all stroll by the water, but was quickly silenced. The singing started again, but Fingolfin strode away, and Hador, taller by two fingers breadth, walked beside him.

 

When even the lights of the palace could no longer be seen, and only the small bats could be heard, catching the flies over the water, Fingolfin finally stopped. To his surprise, Hador sighed with relief and threw himself to the ground, stretching out his limbs with a groan. The astonishment of the king was complete. Hador looked up at Fingolfin, then began to laugh "You have forgotten that I am Mortal !"

With a strange laugh, that made Hador sit up, Fingolfin sat down.

"Alas, that thought is filling my mind. You know... you know that I have fallen in love with you..."

Hador sucked the air between his teeth "Truly ? So soon ? We have scarcely met..."

Fingolfin looked away "I am sorry. I thought, I felt that you... I hoped that you felt it too."

The golden hair swung forwards, silvered by the Moonlight, as Hador bowed his head.

"I feel..." he said softly, his voice choked with emotion "You are as the Sun to me, or the lake... to love you... I was raised hearing the songs in praise of your name... When I saw you, well, you will not remember me, I was only a boy... But when I saw your beauty, and heard the kindness in your voice, I knew that the songs were true. I knew that I would die for you. And today, how wonderful a day it has been ! I cannot imagine a greater day ! I would... I would do anything for you. Anything." He looked up. Fingolfin stared at him, remembering with disbelief the bony child he had been, it seemed to have been merely days ago. How swift the growth of Mortals, and the decay.

"But you do not love me as I love you ?"

"My lord, I cannot say, I know nothing of such matters. All my life I have striven to be worthy of your service, all my strength has been given to the feats of the body, and" he grinned "and to my studies, though with less pleasure, for I am no scholar... But the words of poetry, of the heart... I thought there would be time, time to learn. We have completed our training today my lord. It is still today... How can I..." he faltered, but put out a hand, and said softly "Anything."

 

Fingolfin took the hand of Hador Lórindol, and pressed it gently. "It does not matter, my dear. Set these thoughts aside. The love is my own concern. It need not trouble you. Nevertheless, I do love you, dear Hador, and I too would do anything for you. What would you like to do now ? Shall we return to the singing ?"

But Hador did not move, gazing into the eyes of the beautiful Fingolfin, the dark hair shadowing the pale face, the high wide cheekbones silver against the darkness of the shadowed eyes. Fingolfin felt the thoughts of the Mortal as though they were his own. The nearness, the hand in his, and the intensity of his own gaze drew back the veil between them, he could feel the desire coursing through the swift blood of the Mortal, rising to meet his own, burning within him like the fires of Thangorodrim.

Fingolfin felt the thought form in the mind of the Mortal, and guilt bowed his head. It was surely wrong, to have such advantage of mind, of power, of authority, and to use the Mortal for his own pleasure, without love... His own feelings were not enough, it must be... But swifter than thought, on the instant he became aware of his own desire, the Mortal moved. He leaned forward, put his other hand behind the head of Fingolfin and drew him into a kiss.

After the endless hours, sitting so close without touching, Fingolfin felt the tears fill his eyes, with relief, with joy, and with the pain of separation to come. He lifted his own hand and sank it into the golden hair, hearing a soft moan and realising that he himself had uttered it. The heat of the Mortal soothed him, the thoughts of the Mortal seemed to be falling away as he pressed forwards, his hand pulling Fingolfin towards him, as he leant over, lowering them both to the ground.

The grass was damp with dew, but Fingolfin did not heed it, crushed beneath the weight of Hador. He was far heavier than any Elf his size would have been, perhaps larger than any Mortal there had yet been. Fingolfin, who was himself taller and stronger than most, was stunned by the weight and power, and thought with pity of those who had wrestled this Man. For the first time since he had last wrestled with Fëanor as a child, Fingolfin felt overpowered.

 

As Hador lifted his head, Fingolfin spoke again. "I must tell you... I can read your thoughts. It would be unworthy to conceal this from you."

Hador narrowed his eyes for a moment, then suddenly laughed. Fingolfin saw himself, in the mind of the Mortal, asking for love. "Why do you ask ?" said Hador "If you need only look ?"

Fingolfin looked away, then smiled up at Hador "I cannot read your heart. Not yet, at least. With us, with Elves, it is... it is different. Of course. But I can see what you would say, and what you would not say. But not all your mind, not your memories, nor your dreams. I suppose that with effort you could learn to conceal your thought from me, but I cannot say how this could be done."

"My lord, there can be nothing of mine that is not yours, I have nothing to hide, I have offered you my life, my service, myself. You know my thoughts, you are an Elf, that is why I am here." This time the thought was of anger, the anger of his father, and grandfather, bitter that the Elves should take him from them, and even more bitter that he should go so willingly. Fingolfin had never considered that the Mortals within his realm could feel such wrath towards him. He asked nothing of them but alliance against the Enemy, but here were thoughts of shouted quarrels, and hasty words.

"Your family has questioned your choice of lord ?"

Hador sagged, then lay his head down beside that of Fingolfin, shielding his face, if not his thought. His body, heavy as it was, solid with muscle, the bones long and sturdy, the whole knit together by toil, seemed to shrink in the arms of Fingolfin, who stroked the golden hair.

"Lórindol" he whispered "What can I do ?"

The anger fell away, Hador lifted his hand and stroked the cheek of Fingolfin.

"The ground is hard, my lord, let us seek shelter, I..." Fingolfin felt his confusion, the athletes small rooms filled his thoughts, he could not take the High King to such a place. Fingolfin laughed "My house is near, let us return there, through the orchard, and not trouble the singers."

 

They laughed and joked as they walked back to the palace, with the overloud voices of those who have escaped danger, and seek courage from each other to face the danger ahead. Fingolfin could see no threat to Hador, only he himself faced the endless ages of time alone. For Hador, it would soon pass, he would perish, or return to Eru, or to whatever destiny Eru had decreed. It was intolerable, the strangeness of the Mortal, the unknowable mystery of their death. Fingolfin found himself gazing up at the stars of Varda, as though some clue could be found among the distant lights.

 

Hador was in turmoil, Fingolfin almost withdrew his mind, the whirl of thought and image was like the wind of a storm, full of blown leaves, the branches of trees and the dust. The races and contests, the athletes, the singing, the kiss... And all through everything, not a separate thought, but woven through the mind of Hador, Fingolfin found himself, and understood the answer to his question. His only question.

"All is well Lórindol." he said serenely.

Hador stopped and turned to face Fingolfin. They were among the trees, the noise of singing came faintly from the far side of the palace, the still air grew colder, but Fingolfin felt only the heat from the Mortal, quickening his blood like miruvor. Hador smiled with closed lips, his eyes, caught in a stray beam of Moonlight, were dark, and darkened with desire. Fingolfin felt the thought and leaned forwards into the kiss. The mind of Hador was filled with the thought of himself, naked, waiting.

Fingolfin felt the blood rush to his cheeks as Hador gripped him and pressed him against a tree. A handful of leaves fell around them, and Fingolfin laughed as Hador kissed his throat.

"I think you will like my bed." he said.

 

They crept quietly into the kitchen hallway. The workrooms opened off it on each side, and busy Elves were clearing up and preparing for the next meal. A few heads turned, but Fingolfin merely smiled and hurried past, hoping that his expression was suitably calm. The stairs were near, they hastened up in silence, then along the corridor to the king's chamber. Fingolfin himself held the door open. Hador paused to look at Fingolfin, waiting. Fingolfin took a breath, and looked again into the mind of his love. Hador was seeing him naked, lying on the bed. Fingolfin understood then.

 

He stepped into the room and unfastened his belt. Hador slowly closed the door behind himself and leant back against it. Fingolfin undressed, feeling the deep blue eyes watching him hungrily. His cheeks flushed, it had been so long, so very long...

The light of the golden lanterns lit the golden hair, there were leaves tangled in it, and grass on his clothes. Fingolfin blushed deeper, the kitchen helpers had seen all too clearly their king, sneaking in like an errant child, with his lover. He sighed and stepped out of his breeches, shaking his hair loose and taking a deep breath. He stood for a moment, meeting the eyes of his love, vainly trying to share his thought, but knowing that the Mortal eye could perceive nothing but the surface of the flesh.

 

He lifted his chin, his own body had a fine surface, and a fine structure, he knew he looked well, even unclothed, and he was proud to show himself to Hador.

The deep blue eyes stared into his, steady as the eyes of Manwë, but Hador shifted, and stepped forwards, his lips slightly parted. Fingolfin put out a hand and held onto the bedpost for a moment, then lay down upon the bed.

Hador stood beside him, looking down. "I cannot believe... I cannot believe you could love me..." he whispered. Fingolfin put a hand out and Hador took it, and let Fingolfin pull him onto the bed. They kissed, gently at first, until the mind of Hador seemed to ignite. He moved in a frenzy, gripping Fingolfin, kissing him wildly, running a hand over him, not in a caress, but as though to ensure he were real. The mind seemed to be empty, not of consciousness, but of words, of thought. The mind of the Mortal was filled only with desire, and Fingolfin felt his legs moved apart, as Hador unfastened his own breeches and moved his hand between the legs of Fingolfin. They kissed again, with growing familiarity, Fingolfin was glad that he had spoken of the fact that he could read the thoughts of Hador, it seemed important that Hador should know, and know that Fingolfin knew that he did not care that his thought was open, that he would have revealed them all freely. All illusion was gone from between them, and only their desire remained. Fingolfin was almost trembling, desire was beginning to cloud even his own thought, and the hungry passion of Hador enflamed him. Hador entered him swiftly, and Fingolfin arched his back, trying to open himself, to offer everything. And Hador took him, moving with hard thrusts, barely remembering to kiss Fingolfin, or touch him, his whole mind bent on pressing deeper in, faster and faster until suddenly, far too swiftly for the pleasure of Fingolfin, Hador gave a great gasp of ecstasy, and sighed, and stopped.

 

Fingolfin, naked and impaled, his knees up on either side of the body of the still-clothed Mortal, almost howled with frustration, but Hador laughed.

"My lord, be patient with me. This is my first..." he blushed "This is the first time.... I did not imagine that it would be you, of all people. But only be patient, I am certain that I can bring you pleasure, perhaps as great as the pleasure that you have given to me."

"My love, I am only saddened that it was over so swiftly."

"Over ? We have scarcely begun. I hope you have made no plans for tomorrow."

"Since I met you, this is all I have thought of."

Hador smiled again, a secretive smile, a knowing smile, Fingolfin shivered, and Hador moved his hips gently, then slid out of Fingolfin, and put his hand on the bare stomach. "I wish I could read your mind, to know what you wish for. I know little enough about my own people, I know nothing of your kind. I shall have to just try things, and watch how you take it." His grin widened, and Fingolfin found himself laughing again.

"Oh Lórindol ! I feel sure that you will be a champion in this field as in every other. And you will be testing your skills on the one who most desires to know them. What could be better ?"

 

Hador did not answer, but lowered his head and took Fingolfin into his mouth, while his hand, exploring where he had left off, found the rhythm to which the body of Fingolfin moved, helpless beyond even the power of the Elves to resist. Fingolfin floated, his eyes closed, his mind empty of all but bliss. The heat was exquisite, his life was complete, his questions all answered, there was no more doubt. Nothing in Valinor had prepared him for such intense joy. For an instant, like the blinding flicker of the lightening bolt, he saw clearly what Eru had intended when he brought such short-lived people into being. The intensity of them, the ferocious passion, the fire in the heart of Hador Lórindol burned through the spirit of the Elven king like the wildfire through the grasses. With a final moan, Fingolfin lay back, the first hunger quelled. Hador lifted his head and looked at Fingolfin, who blinked and smiled, vividly aware that he himself was naked while Hador was fully clothed, and more than that, that Hador still had his fingers inside Fingolfin, and had no intention of moving them. Fingolfin trembled "I adore you" he said.

 

Hador smiled "That went better than I had hoped. Perhaps the flesh is the flesh, no matter what the spirit ? Perhaps our people are not so very different after all ?"

Fingolfin saw the terrible hope, the desperate wish in the heart of Hador, that no Mortal had ever let him see. Hador Lórindol wished, more than anything, more than love or crowns or kingdoms, or the Light in the West, for immortality, and to be ever young, like the Elves. The tears sprang from Fingolfin's eyes, and the pain stabbed his heart, but Hador smiled, and kissed away the tears, and began to caress Fingolfin, until the passion rose again and swept away the pain.

 

With a suddenness that astonished Fingolfin, the mind of Hador ebbed away into darkness, as they lay breathing together, pressed close until their limbs flowed together like rivers into the lake. Hador smiled at him, but the smile faded as the light went from his eyes, the eyelids drooped and closed, and the great firm body softened again, until the slow beating of his heart and the waning heat of his skin were the only signs of life. Fingolfin smiled and gently stroked the golden hair, twining a tress round his fingers, thinking of how it had shone as he ran, flashing as he turned, holding the eyes of all who saw him. His own heart was at peace, Hador had thrown off his green tunic and breeches, and lay as bare as Fingolfin, and the memory of seeing his beloved turn onto his face and offer himself up, watching Fingolfin from the side of his eyes, stirred again the desire that had seemed spent.

Fingolfin sighed, here was a Mortal, their strengths and weaknesses were very different to those of the Elves, and their need to lose consciousness, altogether, for hours at a time, each day, seemed a kind of madness on the part of Eru to the Elves who had discovered it. It made their short lives so much shorter, it was incredible to the Elves that the Edain had achieved as much as they had, and that they grew so swiftly, and so well.

 

Fingolfin found himself thirsty, he eased back from the sleeping Hador, but even in sleep, the possessive nature of the Man had him grip more tightly. Fingolfin smiled and settled back; his thirst could wait, soon the Mortal would be in a sleep from which it would be an effort to arouse him, and after all, Fingolfin could think of no other place that he would rather be than in the arms of his love.

At last the Mortal drifted into dreams, beyond the perception of Fingolfin, and when he slid away, Hador did not respond. Fingolfin bathed and dressed, and took a deep breath, steadying his heart to face the questions in the eyes of all who saw him. For all would know; he had been in a crowded gathering, his vision, and the capture of his heart by the Mortal, had been seen by many. He did not wish the news to reach his son before he himself had even left the bedchamber.

 

The hall beside the council chamber contained the usual courtiers and clerics, and those of the wise whose work brought them to court. Fingolfin strode in, smiling as usual, and was relieved to find his people as calm as if no change of any kind had happened. It was almost disturbing. Fingolfin, dealing with the usual suggestions and complaints, found himself listening with half an ear, and less than half of his thought.

In truth, there was nothing here that needed his personal attention, though the news of the return of the celebrated singer from Nargothrond, and the song by the Fen, roused his curiosity. He would take Hador to meet the new bard, she was experienced in living among Elves, and might aid Hador in his difficult new place. For Fingolfin intended to keep the Man at his side, telling himself that he could instruct him best in the ways of managing a people while standing vigil in the long seige.

 

The sound of laughter had eyes turn to the door, Írimë entered, in a cloud of smiles, as laughter came from the corridor she had just left. People stood up straighter, smiles spread around the hall, and Fingolfin strode forwards.

"Lalwen ! Joy be yours this morning !"

"My dear brother ! It is you who have found joy I think ! But where is he ?"

Fingolfin blushed, smiles were turning to smirks, he hated the thought of them mocking Hador, or himself. But Lalwen shook her head.

"Forgive me, of course he is Mortal, he must be sleeping ?"

Fingolfin nodded. The courtiers were gathering around, he glanced swiftly at the circle of staring eyes and looked to his sister to help. She thought for a moment, a rare frown furrowing her pale brow, ignoring the crowd. She had always drawn a crowd, he knew that many of those who had braved the ice had done so for the sake of her and her laughter. Finally she looked over to the small balcony. He nodded and took her arm, the courtiers fell back and drifted into groups. But Írimë closed the shutters behind her and they were alone, high above the lake, in the bright Sun of early morning.

 

The cool air was invigorating, Fingolfin breathed deeply, and wished he were out on the lake, trailing his fingers in the clear water, with Hador lounging beside him, and wine and food in a pack under the thwart. Írimë laughed.

"Can he swim ? Yes, you should take your leave. All is quiet, the woodyards have already sent out the first loads, the new watchtower will be built as easily as all the others. You know how the Fens are... Truly, dear, there is nothing that need concern you. We can manage. Indeed, I shall send for Fingon, it is time he attended to serious matters, such as they are, he has been too long drifting in the North, paying little heed even to Dor-Lómin." she smiled "Besides, people who can see your thoughts will be offended if you cannot drag them from contemplation of the perfection of the lovely Hador !"

"Oh Lalwen, what would I do without your sense to guide me. But where can I go, without drawing them all after me, like you with your laughing followers ?"

She breathed in deeply "My dear, you have lain too long in Barad Eithel. Things are drifting, each of us is settling into our ways and growing apart. Travel your realm, brother, for you are the High King. Inspect the soldiers, check the fortifications, boost morale, unite the family and renew their sense of purpose.

It may be that showing your kingdom to the Mortal will give you new wisdom, his questions may be those which have eluded you, eluded us all. And the sight of you together will help to cement the alliance between the Children, for I too have heard the rumours of discontent, and the growing wrath of the people of Malach, who scarcely call him Aradan now, even in song. But those are problems for another time. Indeed, it may be that your love for this Man will help our peoples to achieve greater understanding and sympathy for each other. Who can say ? But go, and take him with you."

 

Fingolfin sent for food, and returned to the bedchamber. Hador slept still, his face had softened, and the tender lips were slightly parted. Fingolfin felt the liquid fire, his fingers, his skin ached to touch the smooth warm flesh, sprawled on the great carven bed hung with the deep blue of his House.

He looked around the chamber as though for the first time, and the wisdom of Írimë became clear to him. For now he looked at the familiar chairs, the wash stand, the embroidered banner, and the statue of Irmo with his flower, as the Mortal would see them, and he thought of the wooden halls of the Edain, with thatch for a roof and rushes on the floor. And this chamber was the simple house where he spent the months of summer, a mere cottage, compared to the splendour of Barad Eithel. He frowned, but the thought of the lake, of sailing out onto the water, far from the keen eyes of the Elves, to take his ease with Hador, made him smile again.

 

 

There was a knock at the door, Hador sprang awake, his eyes instantly seeking Fingolfin, who smiled warmly and said "Enter."

The servants brought in a small table, set for two, with a steaming pot of herbal infusion, a glass flagon of apple juice and a dish of hot rolls, with savoury spreads and jars of sweet compote. Fingolfin thanked the servants, who left with smiles. 

Hador had not moved, he was sitting with his weight resting on his hands, his knees up protectively, his golden hair tumbled about his sleep-swollen face. The heart of Fingolfin melted with love. He covered the short distance to the bed before Hador had time to respond, and threw himself upon him, sliding fully clothed between the open thighs, wrapping his arms around the slim waist and burying his face in the warm gold of his hair.

Hador laughed "You Elves... I know you sleep, if sleep it can be called, lying there with open eyes... Have you kept watch all night ?"

Fingolfin shook his head, then said softly "Yes."

"And am I to be allowed to dine before my lessons begin again ?"

"Lessons ? Who could instruct you ? You have played upon my body as Maglor plays the harp. Already I crave your touch ! Lessons !"

They laughed, and Hador raised his hand and caressed the pale cheek of his king.

"You are so lovely, son of Finwë, I wish you were not the High King, I wish we could run away together, and just live as ourselves..."

Fingolfin felt a surge of love, the words choked in his throat, he swallowed, then kissed Hador.

"Come then, my dearest, let us eat, and learn other lessons. For I scarcely know who you are, and you must wonder who I am."

 

But Hador laughed "Oh Fingolfin, do you not know who you are ? Do you truly live yet in ignorance ? You are Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, and I have heard every tale and song of your deeds all my life ! Your portrait hangs on the wall of my father’s house ! Your every word and mood is a matter for long and careful debate, in even the most remote and misty backwaters of Hithlum. Wonder who you are ! The only thing that has surprised me is that you should care for me as you say you do."

Fingolfin kissed him swiftly and smiled.

"Let us eat, my dear, and you shall tell me of the hall of your father, whom I have never had the fortune to meet. And afterwards, if it please you, I shall take you sailing on the lake, far from the noisy crowds."

Hador smiled "I think... I think I must love you, else my happiness, which is greater than I had ever imagined feeling, could have no cause, and I would suspect that I had been given some philtre or potion."

The tears came to the eyes of Fingolfin, Hador smiled, and brushed them away

"I hope you weep for joy, and that you do not intend to banish me tomorrow."

Fingolfin laughed "I think it would be less painful to tear the living heart from my body than to part with you. But come, let me pour you some of this infusion, and I shall drink before you so that you may know that we do not use such philtres here." He laughed and with a final swift kiss, crossed to the table "That is, as far as I know !"

 

Fingolfin steered the boat West along the shore, leaning into the wind, feeling the freshness lift the cobwebs from his mind. Hador sat gazing around with sparkling eyes, turning to smile at Fingolfin from time to time, but content to sit quietly in his borrowed clothes, resting his mind. 

Fingolfin liked him in white, it set off the rose of his cheeks and the gold of his hair. But most of all, the intense blue of his startling eyes, now mirrored by the bright waters of the lake, as though Hador were a wall with windows through which glimpses of the lake beyond could be seen. The sail creaked as the wind shifted, they had passed the last farm, and were sailing into the wilderness, where the trees and the deer came down to the edge of the water, and the reeds rose up to meet them, softening and blurring the distiction between land and lake, as everything was softened and blurred in this land of mist and water. The shores of the lake began to draw nearer as they reached the far West, and the mountains rose before them.

 

As they passed the stream beside which the sons of Fëanor had first set camp, the memories cast a brief shadow upon the heart of Fingolfin, but the hiss of the water curling under the bow soothed him, and the bright Sun warmed him, and the sparkling smile of Hador delighted him.

And Hador, perhaps sensing the mood of Fingolfin, spoke.

"Is there a place to which you steer ? Or do we merely sail for the joy of moving ?"

"Does it not please you ? I myself relish the swift, smooth passage of the boat through the water, though on a time the Teleri took me out to sea, and I was sickened by the uneven motion... How my brother laughed !"

Hador laughed with him, but Fingolfin pointed ahead "There is a narrow creek, a small stream pours into the lake over a tumble of ferny rocks, and a small pool has formed, with willows, and a little lawn of bright flowers. It is a fair and quiet place, indeed, it brings to mind a corner of the gardens of Irmo, of Lorien, in Valinor. I think you will like it."

Hador smiled with narrowed eyes "My lord, you are not reading my thoughts today."

 

Fingolfin looked at him in surprise, it was true, he had perceived nothing since Hador had fallen asleep, it was as though he had never awakened. With a jolt of fear, Fingolfin put out a hand, and Hador took it. They were silent for a moment, while the sail, forgotten, swayed and sagged, and the boat slowed and began to turn. But Fingolfin gazed at the blue eyes, as though he himself were reduced to the surfaces like a Mortal... he could see nothing. He suddenly yawned, and understood that he too needed rest, his exhausted mind could not rise to the task of reading the thoughts of another. He shook his head.

"I should have slept when you did... You are right, I can see nothing of your thought, I can scarcely see my own. But do you tell me... Oh ! Forgive me, of course, you have trained here, you know the lake yourself. It... To me it seems that you have come, as it were, fresh from... from Valinor, it is as though I would show you the world as to one who had seen nothing of it." He frowned, then looked up at Hador "And when I have shown it to you, I would lay it at your feet."

Hador looked at him with round eyes "You are so... so mighty, so... I almost feel that you could. And I believe that you would. But I am no creature from Valinor. I am a Man, a Man of Hithlum, and I came to this lake as a child with my grandfather, and learned to sail, while you drank from crystal goblets in Barad Eithel, and held court over Beleriand."

They gazed at each other, it seemed astonishing to both that they had not met sooner, that they had lived side by side, as it were, for so long, and never met. Their minds, in harmony, returned to their very first meeting, in the childhood of Hador, and Fingolfin marvelled that the awkward boy had bloomed so swiftly into the beauty of the Man before him. But the boat drifted to the shallows by the shore, and Fingolfin came to himself with a jerk of concern. He siezed the sheet and hauled the sail back into the wind. The boat turned slowly then surged forwards, and Fingolfin sighed with relief. The lake was more than ten leagues from end to end, and it was a long walk back to the palace. 

 

The creek was beyond the next outcrop, where a lightning-struck tree, white and bare, housed a large untidy garland of twigs and small branches, the abandoned nest of herons. Hador stared up at it, then smiled at Fingolfin.

"My grandfather and I hid in the bushes and watched the herons rebuild that nest one year, we stayed a month, and saw the chicks peek over the edge. It was marvellous ! I think you would like my grandfather, he is wise in the ways of birds and beasts."

"Is he like your great-grandfather ?" said Fingolfin softly, and Hador gaped at him.

"My lord... sire... How old are you ? Really ?"

Fingolfin smiled and shook his head "The numbers are so large that they would mean nothing to you. I am older than the Sun, and the Moon, and I was old before ever we left Valinor. I was already a grandfather." He frowned, thinking of Turgon, and dear Idril, wondering for the thousandth time where in Arda they were all hiding. But Hador was kneeling on the boards, looking at him with awe, reaching up one tentative hand. Fingolfin took it and kissed the palm. Hador breathed again, and Fingolfin realised that he had been holding his breath.

"You look no older than I. No... it is too strange... you... I..." He covered his eyes with his other hand, bowing his head. The golden hair fell about his face and shoulders, Fingolfin wanted to weep at his beauty, and at the unfathomable gulf between them, over which there could be no passing.

But the boat, steered by the unthinking hand of Fingolfin, was entering the creek, and as Fingolfin saw the old willows edging the lawn, he squeezed the hand of Hador, and whispered softly "Here we are."

 

 

For the most part, the Elves of Barad Eithel accepted Hador Lórindol as though he were an Elf, indeed his beauty was greater than most, and his good-hearted smile charmed all but a few. Fingolfin kept him close, garbing him after the manner of the Noldor princes. But there were sidelong looks, and whispers of discontent and even disdain. By the fourth day the whispers could be heard by all, even the dull ears of the Mortal.

 

The South Hall was filled with afternoon light, the silver pillars flashed and shone, the musicians played a beloved melody, and the Eldar strolled from group to group, talking and sipping the new vintage. The soft, scented wind carried roses and honeysuckle, and his body glowed with the memory of his lover’s touch. Fingolfin sighed, it was like the old days in Valinor, and for a moment the illusion was almost complete, until a sudden movement across the room caught his eye. Hador was there.

The crowd parted between them, and across the empty hall Fingolfin saw his beloved, goblet undisturbed in his hand, resting his foot upon the prostrate body of an Elf, and turning his eyes to Fingolfin.

 

The eyes of all turned from Hador to Fingolfin, who wanted to scream, and send them all away. The musicians faltered and paused. The silence became stillness, only a blackbird in the garden filled the hall with song. Fingolfin gazed at Hador, but the vivid blue eyes were narrow with rage. To his dismay, but private amusement, Hador lifted his goblet and drank a mouthful of the new red wine, his foot still resting on the trapped Elf. The infuriated Elf shouted angrily. Hador did not glance down, but stared at Fingolfin, as though in challenge. But Fingolfin knew the strength of the devotion of Hador to the Eldar, and wished for the skill, or gift, to read the thoughts of the angry Mortal.

 

Írimë alone was looking at Hador. Fingolfin saw the harpist, Gildis, round-eyed among the musicians, from the corner of his eye, but it was Hador who held his attention. After a moment Fingolfin realised that he was waiting for Hador to lift his foot and cross the room, but Hador did not move. The Elf risked squirming, but still Hador did not glance down. Fingolfin tried not to focus on the ripple of the thigh muscle as Hador kept weight on the Elf. Fingolfin thought of himself, that morning, licking that thigh.

He could feel the colour rise to his cheeks, he was losing authority by the moment, but he could not shout, he could not cross the hall, he could think of nothing to do, and he knew that none would presume to come between him and his lover, however public their quarrel. To his surprise, Gildis the Mortal began to softly play the song written by Finrod, so long ago, 'Drifting in Lórien'. Írimë, as one awakened from slumber, moved to the side of Hador and spoke softly. Fingolfin glanced at Gildis, but she had turned her attention to Hador.

 

Hador smiled at the words of Írimë, but merely gestured to the Elf with a wave of his goblet, and did not speak. Írimë looked down at the sprawling Elf and spoke softly. The Elf went rigid for a moment, then bowed his head, and nodded. Hador lifted his foot and turned away. The Elf rose to his feet, Fingolfin had never learned his name, and had no wish to; he was one of those who did not delight in the victory of one, but in the defeat of another. Fingolfin resolved to have him discreetly watched, for the spies of the Enemy were more dangerous than legions of orcs.

The Elf straightened his clothes and his shoulders and moved to face Hador. In a soft voice that nevertheless filled the hall, he spoke.

"I ask your pardon, I should not have named you an animal, nor harboured the thought. It was unworthy of you, and of me. Will you forgive me ?"

 

The attentive Elves breathed in, on the edge of hearing. Fingolfin wanted to laugh, he could see the sinews of Hador's shoulders clench and unclench, but the dreamlike music, the dreamlike beauty of the Mortal, and the afternoon, made a sharp contrast to the barely contained fury in the room. Fingolfin wondered wildly if Hador would strike the Elf, but remembered the calm stare across the rim of the goblet. Hador nodded slightly, and spoke.

"All flesh is animal. The trouble starts when we forget this."

The Elf, round eyed, nodded "Then... do you pardon me ?"

Hador smiled lazily "I know that you will remember this, yes."

 

The Elf, deciding that retreat was the path of wisdom, withdrew to a group of his friends, who closed around him. The musicians took up the melody, the crowd breathed again, and movement and life returned to the hall. Írimë spoke to Hador, who glanced at Fingolfin, then stayed his eyes, captivated by the smile of the son of Indis. Fingolfin, on the instant, was filled with urgent desire, but they had yet to dine, and for the king, supper was often more than mere eating. There were people who must be listened to, or addressed, and introductions to make, quarrels to resolve, and so many plans to debate, discuss or propose. His imminent departure and the stewardship of Írimë must be considered, though his purpose was set, and he knew he would not be swayed. But his body longed to throw Hador to the ground, and tear the fine robes from his back, and take him there, at once, on the floor.

 

An old friend whispered "That was nicely done, I never saw such speed !"

Fingolfin spoke from the corner of his mouth, but did not turn his eyes from Hador, now laughing with Írimë and some other smiling Elves. "I did not see, alas ! What happened ?"

"That fool pushed Hador, and as he passed, spoke over his shoulder, the word 'animal', I presume. Your Hador tripped him effortlessly, he spun through the air, landed face down and found Hador standing on his back ! Thoroughly deserved it, if you ask me. Nasty little... Well.

But Hador, such speed, such power, such grace and beauty ! Of all the Mortals to name 'animal' ! It is almost amusing."

 

Írimë was leading Hador across the room. People carefully did not turn to watch, all save Gildis, who followed Hador with her eyes as though he were the only one in the room. Fingolfin, astonished that she had for the second time shown more presence of mind than a great concourse of Elves, resolved to have her seated near him at dinner, for there were harpists aplenty, but swift wit, wisely applied, was far less common.

The eyes of Hador were cold, but Fingolfin smiled as one who has been given a gift. He leaned forwards and turned his face so none could watch his mouth form the words of love. He was rewarded by a greater gift, Hador smiled with a joy that seemed to match his own, and the Sunlight, reflecting from the pillars of silver, lit his fair face with a hint of the Light of Telperion. Fingolfin, his heart awash with longing for Valinor, reached out without thought and laid his hand upon the arm of Hador. There was something of the Vanyar about Hador, of Ingwë himself. Not only in colour, but in the swiftness to act, the calm use of the rage within, and the wisdom to act proportionately. Fingolfin had never admired Ingwë, until the horror of the Helcaraxë had shown him the cost of such serenity.

But beside him, Írimë whispered sharply.

"Fingolfin, you cannot permit violence in your own hall. You cannot."

Fingolfin sighed, but Hador had smoothed all expression from his face. Fingolfin looked at Hador.

"You must understand my difficulty."

"Yes. Your courtiers have no manners. What will you do ?"

 

Fingolfin was taken aback. Írimë quietly snorted with laughter. Hador glanced at her, then drank from his goblet. Fingolfin frowned and bowed his head, wondering wildly what song the unquenchable Gildis would play to smooth the path. If it were anyone but Hador, he could lead them away and have a quiet talk. But the thought uppermost in his mind was not the words that would come out of the mouth of Hador, but how desperately he wanted to kiss him. And he knew that all those present knew this. That Hador knew it. He could read nothing in the mind of the Mortal, the veil was firmly in place. Fingolfin realised that his hand still clung to the arm of his lover, and the warmth of the Mortal skin soothed his heart. His thoughts cleared like wind-blown clouds, and he smiled.

"Hador, my dearest one, will you walk with me ?"

Írimë nodded, and moved away. The music seemed louder, the crowd were silent again, but Fingolfin ignored them all and led Hador into the garden.

 

As soon as they had passed beyond earshot of even the Elves, Hador turned to Fingolfin.

"My lord, I have insulted you, and the dignity of your hall. I ask your pardon, and I thank you for the grace and patience you have shown me. I am at your mercy. But my lord, what can I do ?"

Fingolfin, whose thoughts were filled only with desire, threw his arms around Hador and kissed him passionately. They pulled the clothes from each other, and Fingolfin pushed Hador against a tree. "You know what I want..." he whispered hoarsely.

The sight of Hador, his head thrown back, the long golden throat exposed, his arm above his head, holding a branch as Fingolfin took him, stayed in the mind of Fingolfin like a rock in the stream. The beauty of the Mortal was intolerable, filling the mind with desire, driving out all sense and reason. But worse by far was the knowledge that this beauty would wither and perish so swiftly, and be gone beyond all hope of return, never to be seen again. Fingolfin wept, but Hador kissed away the tears.

"Forgive me, my lord, truly I am sorry that I grieved you. I swear I shall never let my anger move me to such a display again. You have my word."

"Oh Hador... I do not care that you upset that fool ! His manners, as you have said, were unforgivably bad. It is I who must apologise to you. Please forgive my people their ignorance. To you, there have always been Elves, but to us, Mortals are so... so new that we have scarcely considered your existence. In truth, many Elves have no interest in your people at all, nor ever will.

The Valar themselves are divided, some feel that our peoples should remain forever apart, others believe that only together can we remedy the hurts of the Enemy. This division is everywhere, it is here, within my house. It is for you and I, leaders of our peoples, to heal this rift. Or to hide ourselves away, as my son Turgon has done, and live a life in isolation, hoping that the world, and most of all the Enemy, will leave us in peace.

But the Enemy will never cease in his efforts to destroy the Elves, to destroy all of Arda. To retreat into isolation is to be a child on a sandcastle before the rising tide. And, worse still, to betray our own nature, and to stagnate in perpetuity, every day a copy of the one before... A worse fate, perhaps, because self-inflicted..." he paused, Hador was smiling knowingly at him, not the smile of a lover, but of a child, listening to an overfamiliar lecture from a kindly but bumbling tutor.

"Oh Hador... Forgive me. You know these things well. But you cannot be concerned as we are, your time is so short... Indeed, it is for that reason that I weep... This love will break my heart."

"I wish that you could save your grief until after I am gone ! It seems to make it worse, to see you weep so soon... Let us find joy in each hour we have !"

 

 

They were dressing; Hador, sitting with his back against the tree, clad only in breeches, was putting on his shoes, while Fingolfin, who had tangled the sleeves of his own tunic, had his head inside it, wrestling his way into it. From close at hand came a familiar voice. Isca the seer was there.

"Your child shall rise. Through the darkness, your child shall rise ! He shall bear the Light, and bring hope from the darkness. Your line shall endure, beyond all reach of foresight."

Fingolfin heard Hador leap to his feet, hopping into his shoe, as he himself cursed silently and tore the tunic off again. They turned to stare at Isca, who stared back, his pale eyes round, not with fear but with the intensity of his focus on the vision before him. Fingolfin looked at the seer, he was well named, his hair was fair almost to whiteness, his brows and lashes scarcely showed against the pallor of his skin, and the large eyes were pale grey. There was something of Tilion about him, as though he were made wholly of Moonlight.

"My child ?" said Fingolfin finally "Or his ?"

 

Isca frowned, startled from his vision, and looked at Fingolfin in a puzzled way "My lord... forgive the intrusion, I was walking under the trees and I saw..." he stopped, rubbing his forehead with long pale fingers. Hador moved closer to Fingolfin, who put out a hand and laid it on the arm of his lover. He was keenly aware that they were not clothed, and more than that, he did not wish to clothe his lover, but to lie him down on the moss and...

 

But Isca stood up straight, his face seemed to spring into focus as his mind returned to the present. He was known for having seen visions of Helcaraxë, which all had dismissed as dark dreams... Fingolfin listened intently.

"I saw him, my lord, at first I thought it was Hador; the same hair, the same build, it was him. But the face was yours, my lord, noble and wise." Isca blushed and turned to Hador "Forgive me, Mortal, I do not doubt your wisdom, and all are aware of your nobility, but the might and majesty of Fingolfin..."

Hador laughed "He is my lord also, Isca the Seer, and I long to learn from him a little of his wisdom !"

Fingolfin pressed the arm of Hador, but did not turn.

"Please Isca, say on. What did you see ?"

Isca looked away for a moment and sighed "I... see is not the word... though I saw your child, and knew him for your child, I also saw..." he paused and frowned "well... it was a great white bird, shining like Laurelin and Telperion together. I am sorry my lord, it may be that my wits are leaving me... so far from home... But I saw him, as clearly as I see you, and he rose with the bird, into the air... And when I saw this, my heart filled with such hope, such joy... I spoke without thought, and intruded upon your... your privacy... I... please forgive me lord, and give me leave to withdraw."

Fingolfin glanced at Hador, who gave him a baffled frown.

"Isca, you may go as you please. But can you say no more ? How could he be our child ?"

But Hador laughed. "You Elves ! It means that I shall marry, and have children, and that one of my children, or my children’s children, will be as we are to each other with one of your children, or your children's children, and they shall bear a son. The son you wish for, the son that Isca has seen."

Isca looked shocked for a moment. It was not even known whether the blood of the two kindreds could be blended. The thought that he himself had seen proof that it could, before all others, filled him with pride. He smiled at Hador.

"I believe that you are correct, Mortal, for I knew that it was your child, with an unshakeable certainty."

Fingolfin, his heart stirred, shocked and elated into spasms of painful conflict, slid to the ground and sat with his head in his hands. Isca gazed in horror at Hador, who gestured away with his head. Isca bowed silently and withdrew, while Hador knelt beside his lord, and put an arm around the wide shoulders, now hunched and tense.

"My lord, do you not rejoice at these tidings ?"

"No !" Fingolfin almost shouted "No... I have children, and though I rejoice that they live, I see little of them. Indeed, my son, my daughter and my grandaughter all vanished without trace, without word, without bidding me farewell. They have their lives, I do not begrudge their freedom. But I have my life, and I would share it with you. With you ! Not with the promise that one day, when you are... when you are gone, there will be a child in whom our blood is mingled !" He paused then, his voice faltering, looking into the eyes of his lover as though he had understood the words of the seer for the first time, and he wept.

Hador took him in his arms and kissed away the tears, and Fingolfin warmed in his embrace, and they made love on the moss, as Fingolfin had wished to do, gazing into each other’s eyes, until the veil between them fell away, and Fingolfin felt the intense flame of the Mortal burn away his own being, while the spirit of the Mortal, striving to percieve the great glittering webs of memory in the mind of the Elf, found his own spirit thinned and rarified, spun like threads of gold and silver until it scattered into glinting sparks like falling stars.

 

As they breathed softly together, Fingolfin heard Hador draw in his breath and hesitate. He lifted his head and looked down into the deep blue eyes. Hador smiled up at him, but his voice was filled with concern.

"Why do you weep so often ? I had not heard this of you. Nor of any Elf."

Fingolfin thought of the horror he had seen and laughed darkly "I had thought that our songs were known to you, Hador of the line of Aradan." he sighed "So many deaths lie behind me... Oh Hador, I weep at the impossibility of my love for you ! I weep that I cannot ask your pity in my grief at your loss, for you shall be... dead. I weep with shame at my selfish heart that would mourn with self-pity. I weep because my grief for you is greater than for my own father, lately slain by the Enemy."

Hador smiled, "It has been hundreds of years since the death of Finwë, my lord, but to you, it was but lately. Your wisdom is greater than mine. It may be that the Edain have brief lives to spare us from the grief of time."

 

Fingolfin looked wonderingly at Hador. The innocence of his youthful heart gave him a clarity of insight, lamplight in a forest of darkness.

"But most of all I weep because you are the first whose arms have comforted me. You are the first to kiss me, and to dry away the tears that are at last able to fall. My brother, my own brother, drew a sword and placed it on my heart. He threatened me, at the door of my father’s house, before all of Tirion. My wounded pride is as great as my wounded heart. It..." He ran his hand into his hair and gripped as though to tear it forth from the roots "It was the greatest feat that I have ever accomplished. To act with dignity at the blade of a sword. The wrath devoured me, blood would have been shed, had not I mastered my rage and myself, and remembered my duty to my mother, my father, indeed to the brother before me... Oh Hador, he was so... I wanted to slay him, then, but he...

he slew himself, casting himself into the void, and ordering us all to follow. But I had given my oath to him, before ever he swore his own Oath. Our father was slain, the Trees were destroyed, he had lost mother, father, Light, the Silmarils, and, in his own mind, the love of his brother. I had to follow. Though I heeded the words of the Valar, the dreadful warning... Still, he was my brother, the head of my family, and the king of my people. I had to follow..."

"If you had not followed, you would not have met me." Hador grinned up at him, and Fingolfin smiled and stooped to kiss him.

 

"But surely" said Hador "The lady Írimë must share your grief ?"

Fingolfin nodded "Of course. And in time, we shall speak of these matters, and heal our hearts. But she prefers to laugh, and nurse her wounds in solitude, and I would not add a feather to the weight of her grief. She has admitted that a small part of her liking for the quest of the lore of rocks and stones is in the force she brings to the use of hammer and pick." He smiled "We joke with her that Morgoth can hear her coming !"

Hador laughed, but then frowned "How do you know that he cannot ?"

Fingolfin widened his eyes "Do not say such things ! Do you think it could be so ? Are we so overmatched ? We destroyed his army as a fire through the grass.

I must have hope. The Valar see much, but not all, they did not foresee the nature of the coming of the Edain, nor how beautiful you are."

Hador smiled flirtatiously "All of us ?"

Fingolfin kissed him again "No, my love, only you."

 

 

 

 

Leaving behind them the hive of courtiers, stirred to buzzing with news of the prophecy of Isca, Fingolfin led the way across the back courtyard and through the West Gate. The path turned uphill from the road over the mountains, up to where Sirion flowed forth from the springs on the mountain side. The trees overhung the path, hung with lanterns glowing faintly against the still-bright sky. But Barad Eithel fell swiftly under the shadows of evening, and the mountain was dark above them.

They stepped quietly on the white marble stones set in the path, as above them, and all around, the birds proclaimed their satisfaction at seeing another day through. Fingolfin smiled, Eithel Sirion was his favourite place in all Beleriand, though he acknowledged that he himself, bound by duty to stand watch, had seen far less than he would have liked.

 

Behind him, Írimë walked with Gildis, striving to draw the musician into speech. All musicians seemed tongue-tied to Fingolfin, but the harpist did not warm even to the charm of dear Lalwen. But after a time, after much patient and gentle questioning, Gildis spoke briefly of her life.

"My father rides with Hathol. Our steading is lively and noisy, for I have two brothers and a sister, and nine nephews and nieces. It is a happy place, full of laughter and song. But... But I seek music in the silence beyond the merry tunes of the hearth and the dirges of the barrow.

In Nargothrond I found what I sought, for by your brother's grace, and the grace of King Finrod Felagund, I have spent four years hearing the great musicians of the Elves, and at times been permitted to play with them.

Now I have returned to make music which sings for the life of the Mortal. For however brief our time may be, yet still we love the forest and the lake, the mead and the mountain, and we grieve to part with Arda, and with those we have come to... to love."

 

Írimë was silent for a time. Fingolfin turned to smile at Gildis, and caught the eye of Hador, who grinned proudly, as if to say 'see how civilised my people are'. Fingolfin nodded slowly.

"Gildis, you are indeed welcome, should you choose to remain in Barad Eithel, or travel where you will." He stopped, and turned slowly. "But it comes to my mind to have you journey with us, when we travel hence to make inspection of the defences, to consult with our allies, and to strengthan the weak points. And we shall be attending the greatest musician of all the Noldor, some say of all the Elves, Maglor, the son of my brother.

Will you journey with us, fair Gildis, for I am sure that the very orcs would be quieted by your music !"

Gildis looked up at the High King, towering above her, his dark hair black in the shadow of the trees, his eyes gleaming under the shadow of his brow, his face thoughtful and intent. But as she struggled for words, Írimë laughed.

 

"An expedition ! And am I invited along ? There are many stones left unturned, my hammer and pick are ready. When do we leave ?"

Fingolfin laughed "Of course you are invited ! But you have lately returned from long travels, do you wish to leave dear Hithlum so soon ?"

Írimë sighed and shook her head "Your city is fair my lord, but the open road beckons me like stong wine. And more than that, to see our kin, dear Angrod, and that rascal Celegorm, why, let us depart with the rising sun ! Most of all, I should like to hear our new treasure, Gildis of the harp, play with dear Maglor. He will be delighted to meet one who has earned the praise of Finrod."

 

To the surprise of Fingolfin, Hador stepped up and stood beside Gildis.

"Gildis, we have scarcely met, but I recall your father, a fine and honourable Man. I urge you to join us, for I myself am a poor specimen. Though I may be gifted at the feats of the body, I am as ignorant as a child and will doubtless cause embarrassment to Fingolfin, and to all our people, leaving behind me laughter not at my wit but at my folly. But you, my lady, who have sung with Finrod, and shone in Nargothrond, you will be at ease among these mighty Elf Lords, and show our people to advantage."

They stood silent on the steep path, while Gildis looked from one to another, then threw her hands wide and laughed.

"How could any resist such eloquent and heartfelt pleading ! But I have no such hesitation ! I would have begged to be included ! I would have imagined myself sneaking after you, had I the woodcraft to escape the arrows of your wary scouts !

To hear Maglor himself ! What joy ! I would walk barefoot through the fire to hear Maglor play."

They laughed, and carried on up the hill, to where a ring of lantern-hung trees surrounded the bubbling fount of mighty Sirion, here a small pool, spilling over into a tumbling rivulet which sparkled in the lantern light. The sky was deepening, and the waxing moon rose golden above the trees.

 

On the mossy grass a low table was laid, candles burned on tall silver stands, branching as trees, spreading their glow over the heaped platters and mounds of ripe fruit. Írimë laughed and stooped over the table, pouring wine from the silver flagon into a goblet, which she gave to Gildis with a welcoming smile.

"Let us drink to the success of our expedition ! May we all find what we seek, even if" she grinned at Fingolfin "Even if it is only rest."

They raised their glasses and drank, the climb had given sharpness to their thirst, and a keen edge to their appetites. They sat and fell to, and though Írimë kept them laughing, still it was long before all had eaten to hearts content. Fingolfin smiled indulgently as Hador ate and ate, then looked up to see them all smiling fondly at him. He sat up straight, wiped his mouth and sipped his wine.

 

"Does my appetite offend civility ? I would ask your pardon, but I cannot. The food, which is always surpassingly excellent at the house of the High King, tastes... here, by the very springs of Sirion, as food from Valinor must, at least, to me. I... I am still eager for more, in truth, and beg your indulgence while I at least taste every last delicacy that ornaments the table of my lord." he bowed slightly to Fingolfin, who laughed and waved him on.

"I shall be certain to praise those who have laid this feast before us, on your behalf, dear Hador. They would be insulted that mere politeness had kept you from trying their creations. The craft of cooking is a skill that I have never mastered, though I would be delighted if I could turn simple ingredients into such exquisite dishes. Have you, Gildis, given time to this skill ?"

 

Gildis laughed "Alas, my lord, I am the youngest child, and was driven away from the hearth by my mother and my sister, who is the eldest of us. It was my custom to bang things together to bring forth their sounds, while yet an infant, and alas, I had no understanding of mess, waste or damage. At length my uncle brought me a small flute, and showed me the notes... But the hearth remained forbidden to me, and now, alas, I can scarcely cut the loaf without slicing my fingers..."

Írimë threw back her head and laughed, the others joined in, even Hador covered his mouth to avoid spraying his food on the table.

"Here we have the truth of Gildis, favoured of Felagund ! An infant banging pots together, and smashing the crocks ! I pity your mother and sister ! Our poor mother was driven to distraction by my collection of rocks and stones, some of which I insisted on taking into my bed with me, clutched in my grubby little hand. The times she rebuked me for letting chalk crumble between the sheets, or scattering sand on the rugs..." she laughed again, but looked thoughtfully at Fingolfin. As one they rose, Hador and Gildis with them, and raised their goblets to the West.

"To Valinor, and to those we left behind." said Fingolfin, but silently, without turning his head, he reached out for the hand of Hador, and held it tightly. Hador pressed gently on the back of his lover's hand, rubbing softly with his thumb, until Fingolfin released him with a sigh and took his seat once more upon his chair of carven wood.

 

Gildis, to the astonishment of Fingolfin, spoke with a calm courage that he would have found admirable in one of the mighty.

"What course will you take with the fate of Hador, now that the seer has spoken ? Will you find some noble lady among the Edain to wed him to ? Or will you let the music guide him to the choice of his heart ?" She glanced around at them. Hador swallowed and pushed his plate away, embarrassment finally withering his appetite.

Fingolfin held still, listening to the birds, straining to hear the music of the Ainur, seeking in vain for guidance in the wilderness of despair, his heart echoing the words of the Curse, his mind refusing to heed the warning that all paths led only into wilderness. They had turned astray so long before, and there was no turning back. But the words of hope uttered by the seer sounded like an Elven horn above the storm of his thought, and he gazed at Gildis as though seeing her for the first time.

 

She would make a fine mother for the children of his beloved Hador, she was wise and fair, swift of wit and gentle of heart, with a courage beyond praise. He could think of none finer, nor more worthy of... His thought recoiled. He could not part with Hador ! He could not share him with some... some Mortal ! It was intolerable. His fists clenched, he gritted his teeth and turned away, to meet the eyes of Írimë, intent and still. She nodded slowly. Fingolfin sighed, and strove to ease his sinews, reaching for the comfort of the wine. Hador had not seen, he had been listening as though the words referred to unknown strangers. But Írimë, who knew Fingolfin better than all others, had understood. She smiled at Gildis.

 

"Poor Hador, he is barely twenty, newly come to the life of the Man. He will know what to do when the time comes, or Isca will be proven wrong for once, and astonish us all. It is not for us to determine the choices of those who serve us, at least, not in matters of the heart. Is it not so, my brother ?"

Fingolfin nodded and smiled courteously at Gildis "Indeed not, his heart is his own, to bestow where he pleases."

They all turned to Hador, who raised his brow, then bowed politely "I thank you, for the gift of my heart. I hope that in such a matter, the Valar, nay, Eru himself, shall guide my path, and fulfil the... the prophesy of the seer. Though..." he turned to Fingolfin but could say no more. Fingolfin smiled at him, and Gildis sat back in her chair, burying her face briefly in her goblet. Írimë nodded to herself, it would not be easy to assuage the grief of Fingolfin when he lost the Mortal, whether at once, or after a hundred years. To her mind the Mortals seemed as butterflies, bright and fanciful, dancing by while the Elves trudged along on their slow path through time, standing watch and singing wistfully of the lost Light.

 

The fresh wind of evening blew the candles into flat lines, sending wild shadows flickering across their faces. Hador leapt to his feet, rubbing hot wax from his eye, and Fingolfin rose beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come, Lórindol, let us return, where I shall find a salve for your eye, while you rest after your feasting. Will you follow, my dear ?" he turned with a smile to Írimë who gestured him away.

"I shall sit awhile with Gildis, for I have not yet given up my hope of hearing her sing this evening."

Hador turned to Fingolfin, still holding a hand over his eye "Oh yes, let us wait a while, I too would hear her song, here in this loveliest of places. My eye is not injured, it can wait."

 

They sat, Gildis bowed, and looked thoughtful for a moment, then began to sing, a soft, wandering tune, that grew in solemnity until the pain of grief and loss turned it closer to a wailing cry than a song, and Fingolfin found his heart shrink from the raw power of the Mortal's voice. At last the song softened and faded, the haunting melody ending as it had begun, in stillness. There was silence for a time, then Írimë shook her head. 

"That fool who named Hador animal this day should hear this song, though his heart is unworthy of such beauty. This is the very sound of the Mortal, I feel as Oromë must feel, who understands the speech of beasts. I feel as though I had heard the swallow mourning the approach of winter, or the butterfly crying for the safety of the cocoon. Though it is beyond our kindreds to truly understand each other’s minds, or hearts, yet in music we can share that which goes beyond our mere croaking words, which speaks through us, of the great Music itself, which shapes the world, and lays our path before us." She looked seriously at Hador "How did you like the song ?"

 

"I ? It was beautiful ! I... It reminded me..." he looked down at his goblet, a faint smile on his lips. "It reminded me of home, of my father, striding past, ruffling my hair, of my mother smiling at me as she worked at her embroidery, of my great grandfather as he would sit by the fire, grumbling about the cold and comparing our finest dishes scornfully with those of his beloved Elves. I... I thank you, lady Gildis, master of music, for moving my heart so. It is clear why a great musician, such as I have heard that Finrod Felagund is, should single you out for praise."

Írimë smiled to see Gildis blush with pride. Fingolfin sighed happily. 

"My praise can never match such heartfelt eloquence. But I would add to my gratitude for your song, my own gratitude to hear such a moving tribute; for Hador speaks little of his home, and as one who loves him, I must discover what I can from those who can tell me."

 

Hador looked at Fingolfin in surprise "Truly, my lord ? You would hear the dull familiar tales of my childhood ? Why, any Mortal could tell such a tale ! The passing of the seasons, the feast days and the fretful, when rain or snow had us penned indoors, tugging at the skirts of our mother and driving our father frantic with our shouting... The mischief and folly, the lessons learned in laughter and tears, the secrets we hid in places we thought none but we had ever seen, and the dreams of travel and adventure, of triumph and glory, that each of us was certain would be ours for the taking. What is there to tell ?"

Írimë laughed "Oh Hador, you speak as beautifully as Gildis sings. You should work together, make a song of your childhood and share it with us, I should love to hear it."

Fingolfin raised his glass "Oh yes, do say that you will ! I can think of no song I would rather hear. Will you try this thing for us ?" He looked at the two Mortals as the first stars appeared above them. The birds had fallen silent, the soft air moving in the leaves, and the welling spring of Sirion, rippling forth over the stones, were the only sounds. The candles flickered upright and stood steady, casting their glow on the golden hair of Hador, and the fair hair of the lovely Gildis, as they turned to look at each other.

 

Írimë watched Fingolfin closely, the candlelight lit his face from below, casting sinister shadows on his fine features. He seemed a creature dangerous and wild, a predator, watching the white birds he would destroy, as they looked at each other, oblivious to his eyes. Írimë thought of Fëanor, and the madness that had destroyed him. She had hoped, longed and willed, that the madness had been caused by Míriel,whose self sacrifice, as it seemed to Írimë, in pursuit of the perfection of her son, had both made him mad, and, in depriving him of the devotion of his mother in infancy, had driven him deeper into madness.

But with the disappearance of Turgon, Aredhel and poor Idril, despite the reassurance of the Eagles that all was well with them, her fear and doubt had returned. The immoderate passions of her family could not be doubted. Had not young Fingon dared the passes of Thangorodrim alone ? And here was her brother, besotted with the Mortal, who would perish like a summer flower before the more measured of the courtiers had even framed a suitable question as to his presence in court. She laughed aloud, then covered her mouth with her hand. They frowned at her, and she smoothed her face.

 

"Forgive me, and pardon my rudeness, my laughter was not concerned with our conversation. I had allowed my thoughts to wander, as the wine and food have lulled my wits. But we shall not press you for an answer, for art does not come at a call ! We must hone our skills and await its arrival, in hope and in patience."

Fingolfin laughed "Truly, Lalwen, by jest or by inarguable truth, you always have the very thing to say. The night is upon us, Tilion rides high, let us return to Barad Eithel, for I can think of no song that I could bear to have clouding the memory of that which we have heard here, unless it be that which we hope you twain shall make between you." He gestured to Hador and Gildis, who looked at each other with warm smiles. Hador stood and moved to the side of Fingolfin.

"In this, as in all things, your pleasure is my pleasure, lord, and I shall do all within my power to gratify."

 

Írimë pressed her lips together to withhold her snort of laughter, for the soft tones of seduction twined like honeysuckle around the courteous words of Hador Lórindol. Gildis rose then, and bowed to Fingolfin.

"My lord King, though this is the first time we have spoken, you have made me so welcome that I feel at home here as though I were among my own kindred, or back in the caverns of Nargothrond, among those who share my devotion to song. If it is within my power to compose the melody you seek, I shall strive to do so. And it will be an honour and a pleasure to work with fair Hador at such a joyful task."

"All is well then. My gratitude is great at the mere thought of such music."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
